The RAB Factor 2

Cheryl Fernandez-versini reclined languorously pool-side under the welcome shade of a sun umbrella. Chewing an HB pencil in contemplation of a particular tricky crossword she sighed a warm hiss through her vacuous but stunning gob. Admitting defeat she reached for the small bell on the table by her side and rang it with feminine dexterity and Geordie menace.

The Butler, an imperious character for one in service, appeared instantly as if propelled by some invisible hand. “Madam rang?” he intoned, eyebrows quizzically rising like a cotton sheet atop a morning glory.

“Alright Clement Pet” drawled Cheryl, the clash of her Geordie voice against her stunning visage being akin to building a McDonalds on the Acropolis. “Can ya help me with this crossword like? I divvint have a clue what it’s asking”.

“What conundrum vexes you Madam?”. Clement observed Cheryl’s mouth open and close twice like an educationally subnormal but stunning cod. “By that I mean, which clue are you stuck on?”

“Eee” she breathed with relief “You and your words. I can hardly get any of these cryptic ones”.

The butler’s teeth ground ever so slightly against one another at the term ‘cryptic’ but he swallowed down a poisoned retort and regained his composure.

“1. Down. ‘Small hairy animal that purrs and is not a dog’. Three letters.”

“And does madam have any of the letters yet” Clement soothed now, indulging his Rainman-esque employer.

“It ends in ‘AT’ ” she offered.

“Anything else?” He responded warily.

“Yeah. It starts ‘C’ ”. She finished, her flawless face pinched with cheerful bemusement.

“So it’s a three letter word, starting in C and ending in AT?” Clement tapped his bottom lip as if deep in thought. “A tricky one Madam. Cryptic in its construct as you say” he continued, another part of his heart now lying dead in his chest. “Perhaps we should think on that further. Have any other clues caused difficulty?”.

“This one is an anger-am…an angeraram” Cheryl began.

“ANAGRAM!” He squeaked, the mask of composure momentarily slipping but caught mid crisis and placed back on his face “An anagram madam. What is the clue?”

She looked at his red, moist face and noticed the brief transformation. Considering a reprimand, she ultimately decided to give him the benefit of the doubt knowing that he had had a difficult time with his lack of education.

“It says the anagram is ‘Spouting now slandered’ and the clue is ‘Obese Rugby league git and his nether-cloth’ ”.

Allowing himself a moment to be smug he instantly re-ordered the phrase to reveal the truth. “Madam, as you know I originally hail from Leigh..” her face confirmed that she was almost certainly about to ask ‘Lee who?’ so he hurried on, “The answer is ‘Nigel Wood’s Underpants’ ”.

He looked down at the crossword noting that Cheryl’s attention span, at the best of times a hybrid of goldfish and toddler, had waned and she had begun to fidget. “Perhaps Madam is getting a trifle warm?” he enquired noting a light mist forming on her upper lip. He momentarily felt the tip of his tongue protrude from his mouth and realised that despite being perpetually appalled by her double digit IQ, his weak body found the shell in which it sat, most appealing.

“Perhaps a cool walk amongst the figtrees in the Alameda garden might be in order?”

“Ay Pet, I’m all sticky. Come with us for a chinwag”.

He had banked on being able to retreat back into his own domain through the two doors that separated the exterior heat from the cool house beyond. Instead he had further babysitting of an Amoeba in a goddess body to undertake. He mused on the paradox of feeling simultaneously aroused and nauseous before she snapped him from his private world.

“I’ve been meaning to have a girly goss with you for ages” She beamed, her perfect rows of teeth gleaming like a well rendered Stonehenge.

In classic Swan mode he nodded wisely whilst churning inside.

“Aye pet.” She began, slowly walking arm in arm with her hired help among the fig trees. What I want to know, is your perspective on whether there is a conflict or synchronicity between Søren Kierkegaard’s view that ‘The subjective thinker’s form, the form of his communication, is his style. His form must be just as manifold as are the opposites that he holds together. The systematic eins, zwei, drei is an abstract form that also must inevitably run into trouble whenever it is to be applied to the concrete’ and Jean-Paul Sartre’s take that ‘Man simply is. Not that he is simply what he conceives himself to be, but he is what he wills, and as he conceives himself after already existing – as he wills to be after that leap towards existence. Man is nothing else but that which he makes of himself.’ ”

He stared at her for 10 seconds, whilst she maintained the same beaming but doe-eyed countenance as ever. “Existentialism. You want to talk about existentialism?”

“Nah pet, I’m pulling your leg. I want to know what you think of my new nail varnish”.

“Lush Madam. Absolutely Lush”.